


Hope and Memory

by heartofstanding



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book Spoilers, Gen, possible spoilers for the third movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:31:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1580237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippet from a "Dis joins the Company" AU that I am not writing. Dis comes and talks to Thorin during his "sit on a pile of gold and starve" sulk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope and Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bending_sickle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bending_sickle/gifts).



Thráin used to speak of the paths of Erebor as a road engraved upon his palm, the map carved in his mind. The map in _her_ mind has been twisted and turned by the long years absent and the false memories of dreams. At each corner, she must pause to remember, and if that fails, she tries to work it out. She doesn't remember these halls the way she should.

Fíli and Kíli walk behind her, their light chatter echoing in these dark halls, the lamps hanging from their hands casting back the deep shadow. There is no point in asking them for advice, though they both have a good head for directions. Erebor is strange and alien to them, a puzzle that must be learnt before they come anywhere near to possessing her familiarity.

'Mama,' Fíli says quietly, 'Do you know where we're going?'

Part of her longs to scold him for doubting her, to point out that she is not their uncle and is capable of venturing beyond the walls of her house without losing her way. But the rest of her merely longs to push on and find the rooms she once called her own.

'Yes, of course.'

She takes the left corridor, and finds the stairs. They have suffered little in the dragon's reign (and it was a reign, though it galls her to call it so), their stone unbroken. She climbs them quickly, the thought of _home_ aching in her head. Her sons follow.

These halls are filled with dust and debris, broken glass, dried leaves and twigs that crunch beneath her boots. A cold wind blows, let in by shattered glass windows. She draws her cloak tighter around her, aware of Kíli shivering. He is still ill and isn't wearing the heavy coat Fíli found for him. Fíli scowls at him.

'Kíli, you idiot,' he says, but not unkindly, and Kíli shrugs, grinning helplessly.

She touches the worn wooden door, half-rotting on its hinges of gold-plated iron. The wood crumbles beneath her fingers, though she takes care to keep her touch light. This was Frerin's room.

Opposite are Thorin's rooms and she can't remember them at all. They were neat, she supposes, neat and tidy like Thorin kept his rooms in exile. The bed would've been blue, a deep blue he has favoured throughout his years, and he would have made a careful display of his weapons and Thrór's gifts. But this is only guesswork.

'Mama?'

Kíli's at her side, still shivering despite the fact that Fíli has wrestled him into another coat, ill-fitting though it is. He rests his head on her shoulder, and she turns to him, wanting to hold him tight, to protect him.

'Thorin was not always the way he is now.'

Kíli's brow furrows as he stares at her. 'I know that.'

'These were his rooms before— before.'

'Oh.' Kíli says, and glances at Fíli before pushing the door open roughly. Dís wants to catch at his arm, to make him be still, hissing that the wood might be rotten, that more respect should be paid to their past, that Thorin might be angry to have his rooms disturbed so. But she stays silent, wanting to see as much as he does.

The rooms are a mess, moth-eaten sheets and blankets tossed haphazardly across the bed, old weapons piled in a corner without care, including the hunting bow – she had forgotten Thorin had once used a bow. The window here is whole, shining a bright, cold light on the mess of papers and books thrown on the floor. It is nothing how she thought it would be.

Fíli steps over one pile of scrolls and lifts a green-bound book. It cracks as he opens it, the falling dust caught in the light.

'Elvish,' he says, and snaps the book shut, letting it fall from his hands.

She leaves them to their explorations. They are good boys, whatever anyone says, and their bright joy dampened by the evidence of lost kin, kin they never knew, or knew only in their exile. They remember Thorin, bitter and alone with the gold of Erebor in the dark. They feel the horror of it as much as she does.

Higher up, in the halls set aside for the king and queen, she walks past Thrór's old rooms. She had never seen them, would never wish to unless Thorin took them for himself and made them his own, purging the memory of their grandfather from those rooms. Resolutely, she turns away. To Sigrún's door she goes to, rests her head against the wood, before pressing inwards. They are in darkness, the shutters closed, but when Dís forces them open, the Queen's chambers are flooded with winter's light. The rooms seem familiar to those Sigrún had kept in Dunland, neat and pretty, though marked by the ravages of time. She sinks down onto the bed, the mattress giving a little too easily.

Suddenly and fiercely, she misses Sigrún as she has not for many years, the grief and longing buried by other losses and other sorrows. Sigrún would find a way to make things work, to appease Thorin and avert the disasters on their doorstep. Sigrún would have wisdom for Dís, telling her how she could save her sons from a war for gold. Dís closes her eyes, fingers tracing the pattern on the quilt, the sharp embroidered lines.

She does not know what to do. Bilbo's betrayal rankles her, the memory of the sight of the Arkenstone in the hands of Bard – who is a _good man_ , who took in Kíli when he was sick and no one else would, but he is a Man and the Arkenstone belongs to the dwarves, to the line of Thráin and Thrór – setting a low line of fire burning deep in her belly. It is a betrayal, the word hissing endlessly in her veins, as hot as the forges. Even if Bilbo meant well, it does not excuse the betrayal of her brother's loyalty and love.

(She doubts Bilbo thought much beyond his own home and empty belly, but Balin says that is petty and beneath her.)

And Thorin, her brother, the one she loved first and best, the one she would never leave, even if he would always leave her. It makes her sick to think of him alone in the dark, to remember his rationed kindness and care, the way he held her during their homeless wandering and taught her to use both sword and axe, and told she was not worthless when Thrór saw her as a burden to care for until her bride price was paid. She remembers Thorin's terror that he would lose her on the night of her wedding. She squeezes her eyes shut and presses her hands against her face.

What can she say, what can she do, to draw Thorin back? How can she pull him off the ledge this time, stop him from tipping over into the abyss open at his feet. _You aren't Thrór_ , she wants to tell him, _don't become him_. But she doesn't know if he will listen, if there are words or deeds that can pull him back. It is long since they had any true hope, longer still from the time when plying Thorin with affection would destroy his dark moods.

And the war, the bitter, bitter, word that echoes in the mountain halls, amongst the roots and outflung branches of this mountain. Thranduil will be slow to war, but Bard is young and untried, unused to the burden of leadership, much less the crown, and at his back will be the voices of Laketown and the greed of the Master. Thorin will be stubborn, will not remember that Bard aided them in their need, and think himself safe in these halls until Dáin comes – and what Thorin will do when he realises that Dáin expects payment as well?

Dís grits her teeth, grinds the palms of her hands against her eyes. They are doomed and she cannot imagine what wisdom Sigrún would give her. She is neither strong nor brave enough for this.

'Mama? Are you all right?'

She drops her hands, opens her eyes and flashes a smile up at Kíli. He's lost Fíli's coat, but he's not shivering. In one hand, he carries his lamp, in the other something small and ratty.

'Yes, of course,' she forces another smile, reaches out to touch Kíli's arm, to drag him down onto the bed with her. 'What have you got there?'

'Oh.' He hands over his small bundle as he sets the lamp on the a table.

It's a doll, filthy and scorched in places, but she can still see that it was once had eyes of blue thread and brightly coloured clothes. The black wool of the doll's hair is still dark and clear. Dís knows her.

'This was Tóra,' she says, carefully, 'I had her when I was young. She was my favourite – I couldn't find her when the dragon came.'

'Oh,' Kíli says, and Dís looks up as Fíli steps inside Sigrún's rooms. Kíli squints. 'You named your doll after Uncle?'

She laughs. 'Oh yes. He bought it for me, after all.'

When Fíli is standing before her, she takes his hand and tugs until he sits on her other side. She pulls them both tight against her, her boys. They do not deserve this. Against the burning of sudden, inexplicable tears, she closes her eyes, presses her lips against their heads.

'Mama,' Kíli says, 'Mama, what are we going to do?'

'Shut up, Kíli,' Fíli hisses, and she thinks he wants to kick Kíli over her legs, so she pulls lightly at a braid.

'I'm quite tempted to stay up here until the world sorts itself,' she says, loosening her grip only to stroke her sons' hair, fingers twisting in Fíli's, wanting to undo the tight braids. 'But we would be looked for, and if not, we would starve.'

'What are we going to do about Thorin?' It's Fíli that speaks this time, Kíli staying quiet and still against her side, studying his knees. 'We can't leave him alone down there. It isn't right.'

'If we could just _talk_ to him,' Kíli says, glaring mulishly at the floor, 'He might remember.'

'Maybe,' she says. She looks down at the doll in her lap, remembers Thorin holding her as he pressed the doll in her arms.

+

She sends Fíli and Kíli back to the remnants of the company, to tell Balin that she wishes to be alone in her rooms and to keep Dwalin relatively calm. It hurts to sit in Sigrún's room, the light from the window and Fíli's lamp reflecting on the smooth stone floors, catching the gold thread in the wall tapestries. She sits amongst Sigrún's belongings and tries to remember her grandmother's calm, dignified strength and her will – the strength of a queen – until it becomes her own.

It doesn't work. She remains Dís, fingering a hole in her tunic and wishing she was home in the Ered Luin, wishing her boys were still children with scraped knees and wide, wondering eyes and her husband still breathed. She stands, lifting the lamp Fíli left, and goes down.

+

The treasury lies in darkness, her lamp the only source of light. Its flame catches the glint of gold, sending shadows skittering. It's warmer, at least, in the depths of the mountain, no broken windows to let light or the cold winter wind in. She kicks a golden bowl by accident and it goes flying, the echoes never-ending.

'Thorin?'

He does not answer, and she must go on, searching amongst these treasures, the gold and silver and gems, for her brother.

After a great length of time, she finds him sitting on the ground, head in hands, the lamp at his feet long since burnt out. It hurts, a constant ache spreading from her heart and through her veins and bones.

'Did Balin send you? Did he think that you would sway me to his side?'

His voice, loud and bitter, makes her shudder.

'No.' Dís comes closer, 'No. He, ah, he thinks you should be left to contemplate your actions alone. He asked that we leave you to come to your senses.'

'So why have you come, then?'

'You are my brother,' she says, 'Why shouldn't I have come?'

He doesn't say anything to that, doesn't look at her, eyes staring down at the gold-soaked ground, and she doesn't know what else to say. She sits beside him and the gold is hard and cold beneath her. She looks down at her hands, at the ruined doll she carries.

'Does he think me a child still, that I am to be punished with isolation until I see the perceived errors of my ways? A what, a _time-out_ , and I'll come up and apologise to everyone and everything will be fine again?'

'I don't think he knows what to do,' Dís presses her hand against Thorin's arm, 'He's trying to save us in the ways he knows.'

'And what of you?' Thorin shakes her hand off him, turns to look at her with cold, cold eyes that are utterly unfamiliar, and she thinks she should not have come here alone. He is a stranger. 'Have you come to tell me that Bilbo was right, that he did not betray me, only sought to save me from my own folly?'

'No.' Her voice is firm, which surprises her, and she reaches out to touch his face. He tries to flinch back, but she refuses to let him, running her hand down the rough skin of his cheek, brushing back the tangled mass of hair. 'Bilbo betrayed us. He may have meant well, or well enough, but he betrayed us all the same.'

He nods, ducking his head down, and she moves closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. It used to be so easy. She knew that to kiss him would make him smile, raw and genuine, and to ply him with affection would erase that wounded look in his eyes. But it is long since it has been so easy and she does not know how to make him smile, make him forget the burdens of duty and the agony of past wrongs.

'But,' she says, softly, 'We cannot stay like this, Thorin. There is word of war, and I will not pay Erebor's ransom with the blood of my kin when there may yet be another way.'

'I—' He shakes his head, 'What right do these Men have to this gold? When did they offer aid us? I will not be held captive in my own kingdom, Dís, and made to open my coffers to Men to let them drain us dry.'

'I know.' She strokes his hair back, cradles him in her arms, 'I know. We have suffered and we have bled. We have a home again, Thorin, because of what you have done. Is it not time to put aside thoughts of revenge and retribution and look to healing?'

He does not answer her for a long time. 'I wanted to find Sigrún's crown. For you.'

Her fingers tighten in Thorin's hair. 'She sold it. For the War.'

'Oh.'

She wants to ask what happened to Thrór's crown, but she knows what happened to it. Thorin sold it for food during the Fell Winter.

'Do you remember Tóra?' she asks, instead, and he glances at the dirty bundle in her hands.

'She was your doll.'

'You bought her for me, do you remember? Frerin upset me, I spent the hours you two were in the woods promising myself I would be a proper princess, that I would not cry over it. And then you came back with her, for me. She was my favourite toy. Mother and Father used to get so cross for me for dragging her everywhere. They said, _Grandfather gave you this toy_ – the golden dog, you remember? – _why don't you take that with you. It's worth so much more._ But I loved Tóra and hated the dog.'

'Is there a point to this, Dís?'

She laughs at this, a bit, and shakes her head. 'No, I suppose not.'

The world is silent again, but not cold, just heavy and hard. The weight of stone and gold in this mountain might be pressing them down, might have dragged Thorin down to these dark depths, and they might still be falling, might not have found the bottom yet. The smell of dragon is upon this treasure in the dark, and she has no hope left. Her sons are safe, but not forever. If Thrór was here, she would curse him, spit upon him for bringing them to this.

She stares up at the darkness above them, around them and the small puddle of light at their feet from Fíli's lamp is not nearly enough to vanquish the shadows. She turns her eyes down to Thorin's face, half-hidden in the shadows.

''You are not Thrór. I am not Sigrún. We are more than the sum of our ancestor's failings. Don't you dare be like him. Don't you dare use him as your excuse. _We are not them._ Our lives and our deeds are our own.'

He raises his head and looks at her with eyes, the blue of them very bright and very pale, but they are still wounded, still hurt without hope of healing and there is nothing she can do. They can only tend what they have been given. She wants to believe her words, to place hope and trust in them. She will not pay the ransom of Erebor with the blood of her kin, she will not let that be the cost of this gold.

'You,' she says, and cups his face, 'You are not him.'

And she will go on endlessly repeating these words to the night until he believes them, until they mean something, until they speak of generosity and kindness, not of old hurts and grudges. Until they step out from the dark into the light. 

**Author's Note:**

> There's a bit more to my head canon of this scene but I thought it ended better where I left it. The connection between the names 'Thorin' and 'Tora' is something I fudged after a lot of frustration.


End file.
